Games of Truth
by VSBrewster
Summary: "The question she was asking was: do you really want to start this? All night they had been daring one another in their own way. He dared her to smoke a cigarette, she dared him to roll a joint. They dared each other to be honest." My attempt to take the stoned drinking games trope seriously.
1. Games of Truth

_Disclaimer: characters and places aren't mine. I make no money from this._

It was a clear and a cold night, around nine o clock. For a moment the flame from the lighter flared and Severus Snape could see nothing beyond the tips of his own fingers. Then the zippo snicked shut and he took a couple of quick puffs on the cigarette, blowing the air over the ramparts of the Astronomy Tower and watching it dissipate. In the distance there was a flash in the air. He frowned, his chest tight for a moment as he recalled the volley of hexes flung at Hogwarts defences six years ago. Then, seconds later, he heard a sharp pop. There were more flashes. A smile tugged at his lips.

Remember, remember the fifth of November...

It was easy to forget in the middle of term, in a wizarding school. The Muggle world beyond was celebrating the burning of Guy Fawkes for treason against a corrupt government and monarchy. A dubious holiday at best. But he had always enjoyed the fireworks. As he watched, a second display further south started up, and then a third.

"Have I missed much?"

Severus closed his eyes and prayed for patience to a god he had never believed in. Why could he not have peace? He had been a bad man, true, but that was a very long time ago and even by his own exacting standards, Severus believed he had made some amends.

But no. He could not be left alone to quietly live his life in his school, teaching imbeciles and researching, safely tucked away from the prying eyes of the rest of the world. The fates saw fit to deliver Hermione Granger to torment him. As though he had not been through enough.

She leaned her elbows against the rampart, face lit pink by the distant fireworks. She didn't even need to be there. Granger could work wherever she pleased, live wherever she pleased. She had money, an education and a spotless reputation. And of all the bright avenues open to her, she chose to return to Hogwarts to work on another bloody book. No one read the first one, he thought snidely. The Tales of Beedle the Bard would always be an oral tradition in the wizarding world. Everyone liked their Mum's version best. No one wanted the translation of an upstart Muggleborn.

"Something more academic this time," she had heard her breathe excitedly to Flitwick, like translating runes was tantamount to exploring the ancient tombs of the great pyramids. "Something I can really sink my teeth into."

Granger had been allowed the run of the school and it's library, and taught advanced Runes classes on the side. He had seen blessedly little of her.

Severus took another drag on the cigarette. Glancing to his left, he suspected she was watching him but trying not to make it obvious. Gryffindors were always obvious.

"Can I bum a smoke?" She asked.

He turned his head to look at her. Wasn't twenty-four a little old to act out in an effort to look cool?

"No," he said bluntly. He would finish this one and go back to his dungeons and drink. If she was going to curtail the pleasures of one vice, he would simply enjoy another.

"Why not?" She said. She was probably aiming for adult reasonability but she sounded petulant.

This time he didn't look at her. He appreciated the distant rockets instead. "Because it's November and I'm rationing my tobacco. I have December exams to get through. I'm not wasting my personal supply on someone who won't even inhale it." It was possibly the most he had said to her in one go since her return.

Granger took a step closer and he resisted the strong urge to flinch. Physical contact was still difficult. He wondered if she could feel the fizzle of his personal protection wards. Paranoid, the old man would have called it. But then Severus wasn't the one who had got blasted off this tower. Perhaps paranoia was suitable in certain situations; for certain people.

"You grow your own supply of tobacco?" There was mocking in her voice. That was new. When had she stopped being intimidated enough that she could mock him?

Severus took another drag. At least two good pulls left. Then he could stub it out and go back to his dungeon. "I don't like the chemicals they put in commercial tobacco. Pardon me if I like to know what I'm putting into my body." He flicked ash over the wall. A burst of magnesium fuelled light picked it out in the darkness as it fluttered down and down. Then the light dissipated and the ash vanished from sight.

"May I try?" He scowled at her as she reached a hand towards him, evidently about to take his rollie whether he said she could or not. For the sake of shutting her up he handed her the cigarette, though he resented the loss of one drag. The summer had been wet and his supply was low. Give it six weeks and he would be burning with resentment that she had taken that breath of poison from him.

Granger looked strange with a cigarette but didn't hold it awkwardly. She lifted the filter to her lips and pulled, holding her breath as if to prove a point. Her eyebrows raised and, as the next flash of light went off, her could see her eyes were watering. She handed the stub back. "Not as smooth as I'm used to."

"That's agent free tobacco. You can thank me when you have marginally less rampant lung cancer."

She snorted. Severus pulled on the cigarette one last time, then stubbed it out on the stone work and flicked the butt over the edge. Beside him Granger drew her wand and flicked it at the falling twist of paper and ash. It burst into a miniature green firework, serpents of light slithering into the dark and vanishing. "Pretty," Snape sneered, though he noted the girl was used to covering her tracks.

"Can we smoke in the dungeons?" She asked as he was about to turn away.

His intention had been to leave without remark. Doubtless she wanted to enjoy the fireworks on her own, and god knows he had nothing else to say to her. "Are you asking if smoking is permitted in my dungeons, or if it can be achieved covertly without setting off any alarms?"

He was losing his touch. He should have pointed out that there was no 'we'. He could smoke in his dungeons - could do pretty well whatever he bloody pleased in his dungeons. She would be hexed on sight. That would have been the appropriate response. Mellowing with age. The thought horrified him.

"The latter. And could we raid the potion stores?"

Curiosity killed the cat, or so they said. The cat in question was almost certainly a Slytherin.

And so it came to pass that Hermione Granger was knelt next to his desk in the classroom in which he had once taught her potions, papers and tobacco and hash paste laid out before her. A paste because Severus had insisted on cutting it with valerian. He had no desire to spend his Saturday with an aching head and jangled nerves, thank you very much. In his personal opinion she was laying it on a bit heavy - and he had been doing this in the seventies when it was original rather than retro. But what did he know? He was only a bloody potions master. If Granger wanted to get baked he would simply sit back and take advantage. What else could she expect?

"Is there anything else I should know?" He asked, actively engaging her in conversation for possibly the first time since she had left his tuition. "Tattoos on buttocks, intriguing piercings. I should imagine you have to go a long way to rebel against being a saviour."

Granger actually rolled her eyes. It was on the tip of his tongue to take points. "No tattoos or piercings." She looked up at him through long eyelashes, her smile oddly alluring. "Sorry to disappoint." She flicked open his lighter and snicked the flame into life, eyes crossing as she focused on lighting the twisted roach of the joint. Her cheeks sucked in as she puffed to light it. Then she sucked long and held her breath, eyes closing as she released scented smoke and let the lighter go out. Severus sighed and conjured a blue flame between them, the flames consuming the smoke in an effort to keep their activities undetected and ensure his classroom didn't end up smelling like a Bob Dylan gig.

"Everything was horrible for years and I was just a kid. Are you really so surprised I found something to calm me down?"

Severus frowned. You're just a kid now, he wanted to say. Nothing had changed.

Except everything had changed for her. Sudden safety and relaxation after years of being tense. Yes, he knew how that felt. But his numbing agent of choice had always been fire whiskey. The weed would only end up making her more paranoid if she wasn't careful. Looking at her sat on the floor of his classroom, legs extended and back to the wall, there were things that had changed. She still acted like a know it all. But relaxed and, he assumed, unguarded she looked older than she should. He had no right to judge, but she was lined and her eyes were tired. Beautiful, but tired.

Granger leaned over to pass him the joint, and he met her in the middle to take it.

"I wish you'd stop looming over me."

"I am not sitting on the floor," he said with all the dignity he could muster as he pulled on the fag. The burn at the back of his throat was strong and he was desperate to cough, but there was no way he was losing face in front of Hermione Granger. He held it and rolled the taste of the hash around his mouth before blowing a long stream of smoke at the blue fire.

While his attention was diverted he felt the chair shift beneath him, dropping and growing softer. He scowled at Granger from his newly transfigured bean bag. "It's like being in the Hufflepuff common room in the seventies," he grumbled, but did not to change the chair back. A bean bag was better than the floor. Surprisingly comfortable actually. He shifted back into it and extended his own legs, careful not to touch Hermione. He closed his eyes and took another slow puff, leaning his head back and enjoying the feel of melting into his seat.

"You've been in the Hufflepuff common room?"

"I managed to get into all the common rooms while I was a student. Hufflepuff is the only one I haven't returned to as a teacher."

He cracked one eye to see her looking mildly impressed. When she took the joint from his fingers he didn't shy away. "How did you manage that?"

Snape levelled a gaze at his former student that he hoped was superior. "With a companion."

"A different girl in every house." Hermione let out a wheezy, smoky chuckle. "Professor Snape, you are full of surprises."

Only two of his companions had been female, and Lily had been a friend. Not that he was going to disclose that. Let the girl think what she wanted.

"There's a lot we don't know about each other."

Snape's eyes were closed but he rolled them anyway. "There's a reason for that: we don't like each other."

"And yet here we are." He wasn't going to grace that with an answer. He was only participating in this sham of a tete a tete in the hopes Granger would reveal something blackmail worthy. "Did you ever play veritriad at school?"

Snape opened one eye. His vision was a little blurry. Granger was grinning inanely. That would be the weed. He closed his eye again and pretended he hadn't heard.

"It's a game. You say three things, two of them are true and one you just wish was true. Whoever you're playing with has to guess and-"

"I'm aware of the gameplay. What's your point?"

She was silent for long enough that Snape assumed she had let the thought go. He heard her dragging on the joint. It must be nearly gone. Someone had clearly never taught Ms Granger to share. So much the better, if she was high as a kite and he still had his wits about him.

"I've had sex with a man," she said quietly. Snape's brows drew together. "I've had sex with a woman. And I've had sex with a teacher."

He rolled the statements around in his head. It was easy enough. The more interesting part was the statement she wanted, as opposed to the ones that had happened.

"In my day the guesser was allowed a question about each statement, either before or after the answer was revealed."

He cracked his eyes and saw her shaking her head. "When we played you had one question before and one after the reveal."

"Which teacher are you claiming?"

"No way, I'm not answering that!"

He hissed air in between his teeth, allowing himself the indulgence of a smile. "You're wanting to forfeit so early in the game?"

She sighed. He heard paper crinkle. Snape looked up in time to see her rolling a cigarette between her fingertips, lifting to her mouth and delicately trailing her tongue along the adhesive edge. His eyes narrowed. Of his own volition, his mind focused on her tongue, transposing the movement and attention to where it would be more appreciated. Adjusting himself, Snape blamed the hash. "Depends. What's my forfeit?"

"I'll think about it. The teacher is a lie."

She smiled and offered the joint to him to light. "Very good. How did you know?"

"I'd know if you'd fucked a colleague. And you certainly haven't been anywhere near me." She inclined his head, mutely accepting his deduction. He puffed on the joint. If anything, she had increased the volume of hash paste. Apparently she was taking his rationing of the tobacco very seriously. "Fucking hell, Granger," he wheezed. She giggled, the sound much dirtier than it had ever been when she was a teenager. He smiled despite himself. He liked her dirty laugh. "The woman. Anyone I know?"

She was still grinning when she leant in and put her lips to the joint while he still held it. Smile melting from his face, he let go of the rollie quickly and let her take it back to her spot against the wall. "I'll tell you who, but that's the end of your questions. No asking about the circumstances." She took another drag and when she answered her voice was hoarse. "Lavender Brown."

Snape didn't need to ask the circumstances. He could well imagine it. Weasley spending weeks, maybe months nagging for a threesome. And who would he want for such an altercation? An ex-girlfriend, already used to his ineptitudes, but of course. It was only surprising that Hermione had agreed to such an arrangement. That surely must have been the beginning of the end.

"Your turn," Hermione reminded him.

In fairness to her, Hermione hadn't held back - though he still wanted to find out which of the teachers she had wanted to fuck. It might take a few more puffs before she became that amenable. He would need to give something in return if he wanted that information. "I have remarkable powers of recovery. I can make a woman come without touching her." He smirked and leaned back on the bean bag, lifting his hands up to rest behind his head. "And I am incredibly well endowed."

That dirty laugh was really very sexy. When had the nerdish do gooder become sexy? Shapeless black teaching robes did nothing for her, but that was true of absolutely everyone. For the first time, Severus found himself growing curious about the body beneath the swathes of black cotton. For a brief and hideous moment he imagined Brown and Weasley divesting her of those robes. That was the moment he knew he had smoked too much pot.

She was smiling, pink tongue tucked between her teeth as she looked at him with half lidded eyes. She flicked out her tongue and licked the filter before sucking on it. Whoever said carcinogens couldn't be sexy? "Define well endowed," she requested.

"By anyone's standard," he drawled, watching her, daring her to glance at his crotch and try to judge.

Brown eyes flicked down. His cock twitched in response. Being half hard wouldn't hurt the ruse. Little white teeth, not yet stained by nicotine, dug into her plump lower lip. "I don't think you can make a woman come without touching her."

"Then you have a lot to learn about sex with a Legilimens."

She was blushing. In many ways he supposed he should be surprised it had taken this long. "The recovery time. I should have known."

Snape shook his head again. "It always amazes me that women will just believe a man who says he has an enormous cock."

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "It's easy to disprove, why lie?"

"Because that's the name of the game. And the probability of you never seeing my wedding tackle is a fairly safe bet."

She snorted. Less sexy. "Consider yourself fortunate. We used to play strip veritriad."

Snape spread his hands. "I'm two for two. Feel free to strip if you please, Ms Granger. I won't stop you."

She was weighing up whether it was worth agreeing to drop two items of clothing for the promise that he would do the same if she won a round. Which she wouldn't. And on the off chance that she did, no one layered like Severus Snape in winter. Granger heaved a sigh and started toeing off her shoes. "Paired clothing counts as one item," he said softly, staring up at the ceiling as though entirely above the whole debacle.

When he looked back at her there were no shoes and her teaching robe had been removed. He smirked. This was going to be fun. Beneath she wore only a white shirt and brown pencil skirt. Ms Granger apparently did not feel the cold. The joys of being young and stationed near Gryffindor tower at the heart of the castle. Those relegated to the dungeons learned in first year to wrap up warm. The blouse was fitted and the skirt high waisted, accentuating an hour glass figure. She had been petite in her seventh year - he remembered a figure hugging set of dress robes worn to the leavers' ball which she was constantly pulling up because she didn't have the bust to pull it off. That, he mused, would no longer be an issue. Thank the house elves for three square meals a day. Though in truth, a reduction of stress was probably just as responsible. Nothing like relaxation to slow the metabolism. He regarded her legs - at the ankle, not the knee - and wondered whether those were tights or stockings.

"My turn. I've had sex in the dungeons. I can have multiple orgasms." She looked down at the floor for the first time. Snape frowned. "And I didn't lose my virginity to a Weasley."

"Do you play poker?" He asked immediately.

Hermione looked surprised. "Is that your pre-reveal question? It's not about any of my statements." He didn't answer but watched her reply carefully. "No I don't. I know how to play but I'm no good at it."

Snape was I'm something of a quandary. On the one hand, no student had fucked in his dungeon. In the first place, it would be one hell of a danger fuck and he was confident that no student would deem it worth the effort. In the second place, a man's home was his castle, and Snape knew his dungeon, knew everything that happened there. She had not had sex in his dungeon. On the other hand, her body language was so bloody obvious about the multiple orgasms. Every woman could experience multiples, it was one of the joys of being female. If that was the lie - and she almost certainly believed it to be, unless she had suddenly become one hell of a manipulator - it confirmed everything he had ever believed about the Weasley twat.

"Your lie is about the orgasms. But you're wrong. You're inexperienced and you have apparently been unlucky in your partners. Biologically, women have the potential for multiple orgasms. I see no reason you should be an exception."

Snape watched her carefully as that sank in, focussing on her eyes. It was difficult to perform occlumency without a wand, without speaking the words. Only the clearest thoughts came through. Her clearest thought spoke to him: all women have the biology, but not all have the psychology. Stop pretending you know me, git.

Interesting.

"Aren't you going to ask me how I got away with having sex in the dungeons?" She asked.

He did want to know, but didn't want to give her the satisfaction of admitting his curiosity. Better to let her think he already knew.

"I want to see what you're going to strip off next."

Hermione rolled her eyes and lifted the hem of her skirt to mid thigh. The sheer black led to a thick, full black stripe, pulled up to a suspender clip. "If those are stockings I'd rather they stay on a bit longer."

The words were out before he could stop them. Hermione was smirking at him. She left the stockings, but didn't pull her skirt down. He could still see that thick black stripe, and a scant triangle of pale flesh above. Instead she started unbuttoning her blouse. Snape's mouth went dry at the creamy young flesh revealed, inch by tantalising inch. She was being perfectly functional about it, but it was still a turn on. "Can that fire put out heat?" She asked. Of their own volition, his gaze dropped to her breasts. Sensible cotton bra, and there were the little peaks of her nipples pointing out towards him. He imagined sliding the white strap from her shoulder, leaning in a suckling on her nipple, teasing and licking it, biting and seeing if she liked it.

He flicked his wand and the flames turned a natural orange. They seemed to have finished smoking anyway.

"This is unfair. You're too good at this."

"Life isn't fair, Granger. That lesson should have been firmly ingrained by now." He ran his eyes over her body. Half hard had become fully hard and he was beginning to wonder how far Hermione would let him push this. It surely couldn't be much longer before she stormed back to her tower. "And besides, it was your idea. All of this was your idea."

Her arms were crossed over her stomach, pushing her breasts a little higher. She was still smiling, just faintly. But there was a shade of doubt in her eyes. Severus realised that he wasn't ready to let her back away just yet.

"Do you find it easier guessing or lying?"

She made a face. "Lying, I suppose."

"Then go again."

"Ok," she said, drawing out the second syllable. "I once drank so much I threw up. My favourite place to be kissed is my neck. And I'm finding this incredibly arousing."

Snape snorted. Did this girl want to end up naked in his classroom? "Only the once?" He sneered.

"Surely once is all you'd need," she replied, smoothing her skirt demurely.

"You aren't turned on by this conversation. That's the lie."

"I want to choose which item of clothing you remove, please." She said calmly, though her eyes were dancing.

Little minx.

"Which was the lie?"

"Why would anyone drink until they were sick? It's always been beyond me!"

He suspected his mouth was hanging open, but he honestly couldn't help it.

"I think I'd like to see you remove your underpants, please. And then we'll call it a night."

"Who says I'm wearing any?" He growled. And was it just him, or did something flare in her eyes at that suggestion. "You have a forfeit. Prove it."

She laughed. "Prove what?"

"You know what. Prove that you're turned on."

Her smile was assessing, calculating. Distinctly Slytherin. "Pants off first. Then I'll prove it."

It would have been easy to conjur a pair of briefs from scratch. But for whatever reason, Severus Snape was feeling honourable. He swished and flicked his wands, muttering some choice words that were not all incantation. A warm tingle, a shifting and then an absence in his nether regions told him that his underwear had disappeared. Making them reappear in his open hand was easy. He offered the neatly folded undergarment to her. "Still warm," he sneered.

Hermione's gaze was fixed below his waistline. She had been hoping he would remove them manually somehow, but had the good grace not to complain.

In a moment she was on her knees in front of him. His wand was already drawn and out of reflex he pressed the tip to her throat. I was unwise to make sudden moves around a war veteran. She looked down at the tip, eyes crossing slightly as they did when she lit a cigarette. One hand lifted and she pushed his wand aside and pressed a little closer, insinuating herself between his knees. With the extra room, his cock had filled to it's full length, tucked awkwardly up against his hip, and there was no subtle way to adjust with her this close. Her eyes were red and bleary and unfocused as she stared him down. "Do you really want proof?"

That was a loaded question if ever he had been asked one. Of course he wanted proof. Of course he wanted to know that she was getting off on this as much as he was. Ninety per cent of sex happened between the ears, and it was always a joy and pleasure and relief to know that there was reciprocation.

This was not the question she was actually asking. The question she was asking was: do you really want to start this? All night they had been daring one another in their own way. He dared her to smoke a cigarette, she dared him to roll a joint. They dared each other to be honest. He dared her to bare herself to him, and now she dared him to ... What? Touch her? Fuck her? The awkward part was, he wouldn't know the precise nature of the dare unless he acquiesced.

"Yes," he ground out.

Warm little hands wrapped around his. She was guiding his hand, pressing it to her stomach. She encouraged him to slide downwards, but Snape found he didn't need the encouragement. Like riding a broom, the instinct didn't go away no matter how long it had been.

And how long had it been since a young thing in her mid twenties had offered Snape her body?

Best not to think about it.

She was scalding hot to the touch. Her skin seemed to have soaked up the heat from the flames, like a stone in the desert sun. She was soft, so soft. He ran his hand under the waistband of her skirt, fingertips brushing the elastic of underwear. The angle was awkward, so with his spare hand he pulled her closer, maneuvering her body between his legs. His cock seemed entirely focused on how he would like to maneuver her between his legs, and strained against the fabric of his trousers towards her as though she had summoned him.

At last he was within and felt the tickle of pubic hair. Down and down. The contours of her cunt lips, her labia. He risked a glance at her face. He had hoped she would close her eyes so he could watch her, but she was staring at him intently. Apparently they both liked to watch. "There," she whispered, so softly he almost didn't hear. He pressed his middle finger upwards. Molten heat and wet and softness. Swollen flesh and sticky juices. Oh yes, she was turned on alright. He pressed up higher, his fingertip sliding inside of her...

"Enough," she said sharply. Hermione wriggled away from him before he could stop her. She was already pulling on her blouse, un fastening buttons. "It's late and I'm tired. Thank you for an interesting night, professor."

Then she was gone, as though she had never been there. No, not quite. There were two cigarette butts where she had been sitting. And her juices were cooling on his fingers. He lifted them to his lips and tasted her. Tangy salt and honey sweet. He licked but didn't suck. He wanted to be able to smell her when he got back to his rooms and dealt with the uncomfortable problem in his trousers.

Snape drew his wand once more and pointed the tip at the butts on the floor. He thought of the serpent firework she had made of the fag he had dropped off the Astronomy Tower and smiled. Instead of Vanishing them, he summoned them and pocketed the evidence for later rumination. For there would be a lot of thought, many questions to consider, and planning to be hatched as to what would happen next.

But for the time being, Snape just wanted to go to his rooms and wank furiously imagining Hermione Granger doing the same.


	2. Terms of Service

It had proved to be a long and busy weekend. Visits from friends, research, a meeting with her publisher and tea with the Headmistress had meant that Hermione had very little time to spend brooding. Normally when she was confused about her feelings, she would spend time writing lists and creating mindmaps to work out how she felt; what should be her course of action. There had been no chance to do that. Luckily, she had also failed to cross paths with her former Potions professor, though he had frequently occupied her thoughts.

On leaving his classroom late Friday night, she had returned to her room and spent time thinking about him. Specifically, about the bulge in his trousers which he seemed to think was nothing special; about his ability to make women come using mind magic, without any physical contact; about the many revelations he had shared with her. Mostly, though, she thought about his hand sliding into her knickers, a slender finger probing her pussy, and his dark eyes watching her reaction intently. That, she reflected, had been the sexiest thing. The intensity with which he observed her. She wondered if he was like that all the time during sex, or if there was a point at which he became too turned on to analyse. She wondered which was sexier.

Whenever Hermione had found time to herself, this had been the occupation of her thoughts. Not what she was going to do next, or how she was supposed to look the man in the eye over breakfast, or whether it had been wise to tell him quite as much as she had. She spent her time masturbating.

And they called her the finest witch of her generation. That really was one hell of a monicker to live up to.

At first, when there was no contact from Snape, Hermione was relieved. The last thing she wanted was a relationship. She'd tried that with Ron and found that being domestic, even being monogamous, wasn't for her just at the moment. The thought of being tied anywhere, to anyone, was cloying. Her life had been narrowed to life or death during years which should have been her most care free, and she had grown determined that this was not the way she would live the rest of her life. There would be no boundaries, no rules, no pre-determined grooves. There would always be expectations from other people, there was no escaping that. But how she reacted to them and whether she met them or not were entirely her own decision. At the moment she was happy at Hogwarts. It afforded her the space, peace and resources to research, and teaching had it's own rewards - but she would not stay more than two years. She wanted to travel. She didn't want to be bored. There was always the nagging fear that if she got bored, the memories and feelings from her teenage years, so harshly pushed down and out of the way in her mind, would surface and demand attention. Best to be busy. Best to keep moving.

Still, two days passed and Hermione became a little peeved. She was under the impression she had made an effect on him. It was galling not to have him pursue her, just a little.

Perhaps, if she had stayed...

No. It was for the best that she left when she did. Hermione might have become slightly more impulsive than in her teenage years, but she still knew better than to tumble on a classroom floor with a colleague while stoned. Waking up the next morning would have been a hideous reality check. Leaving had been for the best.

Monday morning saw her buried in a book - a pile of books, in fact - working on translations. She was trying to tie the writings of John Dee's possession in the seventeenth century to a more recent possession in the American Deep South, and find a common language and rune usage between them. It involved flicking between three texts and some natty comparative text charms of her own devising. Needless to say, she was not very aware of her surroundings.

It took her by surprise, then, when a small paper aeroplane skidded to a halt on the text book before her. She frowned and glanced around. There were a group of students in the Potions section, a class of ravenclaw and Gryffindor third or maybe second years. And there, overseeing, like the giant bat she loathed to recall, was Professor Snape.

Hermione stretched and rubbed her eyes, flicking her wand to dispel the charms. She flattened the aeroplane, the folded it into quarters and stashed it in the sleeve of her teaching robes. Muscles groaning with stiffness, she rose from her chair and drifted towards the gaggle of students.

Most of them had, by this point, taken text books to tables and wee studying in near silence. Snape was drifting between the desks and the stacks. It was easy enough to intercept him, and he seemed willing enough to glide close to Hermione.

"Did you just pass me a note during a study period?" She whispered, smirking as she raised her gaze to meet his.

He was smirking in return, actually looking very pleased with himself. "Tell it a lie and it will reveal its message."

"Very clandestine. Is that necessary?"

Snape frowned, suddenly on alert. It was like watching a dog that's spotted a rabbit far off and hadn't yet been told to fetch it.

"Accio note!" He hissed, and a scrap of parchment whistled through the air into his hand. At the table, one of the Gryffindor girls was turning an unpleasant shade of peuce. Snape opened the note and then turned it so she could see. A crude drawing of a woman in black robes pressed back against a bookshelf, while a man buried his large nose in her cleavage. "I think it's necessary," Snape growled. "Twenty points from Gryffindor for a painful lack of originality, Hopkins."

Her books engrossed her once more, and Hermione had no time or attention for anything else. She had no students on a Monday, no obligation to attend meals. The note quite slipped her mind until she came to undress for her bath before dinner that evening and found it in the sleeve of her robes. It looked like just a normal sheet of parchment. She thought of the Marauder's Map and lay her wand against the crinkled surface. "My name is Harry Potter," she told it, and smiled when cramped, spidery handwriting slithered across the page:

Firstly, I want you to know this is not an apology of any kind. We are both consenting adults who gained enjoyment from a shared sexual experience. And some pot. You left when you wanted and I didn't stop you. I am happy with the way things panned out. Pleasantly surprised.

That said, it is difficult to open a dialogue with someone I have spent so much time actively avoiding. I would like to open a dialogue.

There is bad blood between us and, despite revelations on both sides Friday night that could be both costly and embarrassing, I suspect you still don't trust me. So here is your opportunity. Ask me anything. I will be busy with classes probably until the weekend, but I will write as full a reply as I can. And I will be truthful. How often do you find a Slytherin promising that?

Hermione took the time to run her bath, as she had planned. She disrobed and soaked herself, scrubbed and rinsed away the library dust. There was nothing specific she wanted to know about her colleague. Rather, she appreciated the gesture of honesty and would take him up on it ... But she was more interested in spending time with him, conversing with him than asking a question and receiving a response. It felt too much like an interview. Not at all like building a ... Rapport.

She sighed, sending bubbles skidding across the surface of the water. Being close to Snape in the library, close enough to smell the faint sour scent of tobacco on him, had been a small thrill in her otherwise academic day. It would be nice to spend an hour in the bath, paying attention to the warm coil of pleasure standing close to him also caused, but there was no time. Not if she was going to return his note.

Out of the bath and wrapped in fluffy white towels, Hermione took a quill and wrote her question beneath his letter: "Tell me about Lily Potter." Best to keep it open. For all she knew it was still a sore subject, but she trusted him enough that something interesting would come from the request.

The question now was how to Disappear the text once more. The Marauder's Map had a specific phrase that turned it blank once more but she had received no instructions of that kind. With a twist of her mouth, she placed the tip of her wand against the parchment. A lie had revealed it. Perhaps a truth would conceal it.

"Severus Snape is sexier than you might think," she said with a wry twist of her mouth. When the black writing seemed to melt into the page and vanish, she let out a dry laugh. "I hope it doesn't store up what you tell it," she muttered, slipping the parchment back into the sleeve of her robe as she dressed.

At dinner she took the long route around the high table, dropping the parchment into Snape's lap as she passed behind him. It took a lot of effort not to giggle at the thought of passing notes to Professor Snape and more effort still not to look over her shoulder to check it had, in fact, been picked up by its intended target and no one else. As she sat in her seat at the end beside Professor Vector, she leaned forward to reach for the salt and glanced down the table. Snape was eating and glowering at the Gryffindors. No sign of the parchment. This must surely be a good thing.

Dinner passed without incident. Professor Vector asked about her research and shared some insights, they discussed the possibility of a combined Ancient Runes and Arithmancy field trip to Stone Henge. It was a very pleasant dinner, though Hermione knew she was distracted. Snape left early as he often did. She sometimes wondered if he'd eaten anything at all. Minerva had, in a tipsy moment, revealed that after spending three weeks 'forgetting' meals, Dumbledore had obliged him to be present at mealtimes for at least ten minutes of pain of losing his head of houseship. Hermione was not so hasty. Her feelings about House Elf rights aside, it was a relief to be fed regular nutritious meals, a luxury she had come to appreciate.

An hour or so later Hermione unwarded the floor length mirror that led to her private apartments. The mirror swung forward and she saw a fresh parchment Spellotaped to it's back. She smirked and pulled it free, closing and warding the mirror behind her. She wondered how long the sneaky bastard had known the precise location of her rooms. Heaven knows, she had no idea where he roosted, besides that it was somewhere in 'his' dungeons.

Hermione stretched and undressed, combed out her hair and brushed her teeth. It was not late, but she wanted to enjoy this letter and, given the blank parchment was a good three feet in length, she suspected it would make excellent bedtime reading.

Once she was snugly tucked under the covers, Hermione took out her wand and held it to the parchment. "Blondes have more fun," she said drily, unable to shake the suspicion that he might somehow be collecting whatever she said to the parchment. The lie was acceptable, and his spiky scrawl wrote itself across the parchment, covering it entirely. Hermione settled back into her pillows, and this is what she read:

An interesting choice.

Lily was beautiful. In many ways I loved her from the moment I saw her when I was ten years old. There wasn't a lot of love when I was young, and I latched on to the first creature that showed me affection. I can be obsessive. It serves me well academically. Not so much socially. When we both came to Hogwarts I became very reluctant to share her, but wasn't left a lot of choice.

Lust crowded in with affection when I was about fourteen. Which meant I had a year to enjoy wanking over her and hoping desperately that she might, one glorious day, let me touch he breast. After that, being surrounded by bigotry and intimidation and political unrest got the better of me. It is difficult to describe the way my feelings towards her changed in those very strange, dirty years. I still wanted her, still craved her attention and body; but at the same time I despised her for being Muggleborn, and for scorning me when I felt myself to be superior.

I consider myself lucky those feelings confined themselves to my adolescence. By the time I was twenty, she was married and I had found there was more than one cunt in the world. It might be inferior, but it was there nonetheless. My hate became less focused. We were estranged until my father died when I was twenty-one. She came to the funeral. She was different in some respects, entirely unchanged in many. Married life was not what she had expected. Being a wife restricted her in a way she had not anticipated. And then there was a baby on the way.

I became an avenue for her to vent her frustration. I did not judge, I was in no place to. And I kept her secrets. We fucked once. She was four months pregnant, just over the nausea and misery and frustration that had underscored the prior three months. I was brewing her potions to help. They were about to make the family go into hiding. She was frightened about who would deliver the baby. Potter had been venting his frustration about the prospect of being cooped up, was spending less and less time at home. I'm not proud of it. I'm not ashamed either. She wanted to feel wanted, and I was more than happy to deliver. Even with his baby fluttering around inside of her, she was still the most beautiful creature I have ever seen.

That was the last time I saw her alive. She expressed regret afterwards, most of the time. Very occasionally I would get a tearful letter saying she missed me and wished she could see me again. Wished I could hold her again. Whether that was honesty or desperation I don't know and I would rather not examine too closely.

The nobler types who remember how hard I worked to protect her like to think of me as some sort of desperate lunatic who's spent his life wanking over one woman and self flagellating because he will never have or deserve her. There has been a time for self flagellation. I still despise myself sometimes that I couldn't do more, bargain more with either side to ensure her safety. And I wonder what might have been. Yet life drags on relentlessly and I have not spent twenty-five years in abstinence for the sake of a dead woman. My life carried on.

So now I get a question in return. What are your intentions, Granger?

It was not the sexy missive Hermione realised she had been hoping for. Sitting opposite Snape on the Potions room floor, smoking his personal stash and flirting shamelessly had been exciting. Hermione sometimes mused that losing her adolescence to danger and battle had left her attracted to the sorts of behaviours in adulthood that should have been left at school. Jung would say that trauma had halted part of her development in her teenage years, these inner children doomed to forever act out the rebellions she never had the opportunity to live when they would have been relevant. As far as she knew the wizarding world didn't accept psychoanalysis.

Reading about Harry's mother carrying on an affair wasn't sexy. Interesting, yes. But not sexy. She spent a moment wondering, had she lived, had both the Potters lived, if they would be the happy family unit Harry had always imagined.

Her mind turned to his question. He, too, had left it open. What were her intentions? Towards him? Towards her job? Towards life in general?

Hermione heaved a sigh and summoned a quill and ink. She wasn't going to sleep until this was written.

As she took out a roll of parchment, Hermione smiled to herself. She thought of her first book deal, the negotiations over terms, boundaries, publishing rights and intellectual property. Was this their bargaining period? She shook her head, smirking to herself, and began to write out her terms.

Severus sank, if possible, a little deeper into his arm chair. His feet were propped on a stack of incredibly dull and largely inaccurate Potions texts. Shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbows, a tumbler of fire whiskey - his fifth - rested in the palm of his hand. He swirled the contents lazily, watching flames lick at the glass as the liquid rose and receded.

Nearly twenty-six years. He had never told anyone about the day Lily Flooed to Spinners End. She had been crying but she wasn't upset. Fury radiated from her. He didn't even have a chance to ask what the twat had done before she had him pushed against a book case. She was so little, she had to fist a hand in the front of his shirt and drag him down to her level to kiss him. Had he told anyone, he might have lied and said he put up an initial resistance. The truth was the moment he realised what was happening he made the most of it before she had a chance to come to her senses and leave. They ended up fucking on his desk. He was grateful it wasn't his first time. Fucking her wasn't perfect and it might have crushed him a couple of years earlier. He had learned that sex is never perfect - that's precisely what makes it exciting.

Afterwards he had expected her to storm out or refuse to talk to him, leave without saying goodbye. Instead she thanked him. Kissed him. Picked up her underwear with dignity and put on the kettle. Before she left they had tea. She frowned and pushed his hair back and said he wasn't eating properly.

Severus heaved a sigh and downed his drink. He reached for the bottle on the floor and found it empty. Fuck. He pressed his thumb and forefinger to his eyes. Perhaps he was drunk enough. Perhaps he could sleep without staring at the black ceiling and seeing a flush spread over what he could see of Hermione's breasts as he slid a finger inside her cunny.

His cock stirred half heartedly, even through the haze of alcohol and physical exhaustion.

One more glass.

He stood and steadied himself on the arm of the chair as the world shifted and swayed beneath him. Eventually it steadied and Severus took the three steps to his liquor cabinet. He did not stagger. He definitely did not stagger. He opened the cabinet and sighed.

"And when he got there the cupboard was bare. Fuck sakes!"

Snape turned and flung his tumbler against the far wall. Before the shards of glass had hit the floor his wands was out, and they were reforming and flying back towards him. He caught the glass in his left hand. He used the momentum of the glass to throw it again, harder. No sooner had it exploded than it reformed and flew back to him once again. His hand was open, ready to receive the glass. Instead, an envelope nudged his palm. He frowned, glanced at it, took it from the air...

And his favourite tumbler smashed into the wall beside his head.

"Fuck!"

Snape flicked his wand. Sluggishly the glass reformed. He growled as some small shards wriggled free from his face to return to the glass. He ran his thumb over the glass, trying to feel the tiny veins showing his blood, fused into the tumbler. He smiled. Only because he was alone. And because magic sometimes still made him happy, if only for a split second before the hideousness of existence nudged him back into his normal frame of mind.

He flicked a handkerchief from thin air and held it to the side of his face. Smears of blood. Only a scratch.

Now, what was the bloody letter.

"Professor S Snape. Very formal, Ms Granger." He slit it open with his wand and drew out the parchment from within. "Terms of agreement between the author and publisher as agreed on... What on earth?" He scanned the paper down to the bottom line. "Do you agree to the terms of service?" He frowned and rested the tip of his wand against the parchment. "Terms agreed," he said shortly, and smirked as the letters shuffled around the page.

Snape dropped back into his armchair, the need for an alcohol induced oblivion temporarily forgotten. This is what he read:

My intentions. In writing this I found the difficulty was that there are a lot of things I don't want, which obscured the things I do want. I think I know how difficult it must have been to write to me about Lily. I have done my best to repay your honesty.

1) I intend to live my life, as much as I possibly can, without influence or pre-conception based on my past. There are advantages to what I have done and the way I have done it - money, privilege - but there are also draw backs. Like people thinking they get to decide what I do and how I do it. I don't want to be controlled. I want to be free to make my own decisions. Even bad ones.

2) I intend to be free. I intend to achieve this by avoiding committed romantic relationships, being financially stable as much as I can, and embracing opportunities.

3) I intend to make the most of any opportunity. I know I already wrote that once, but I think it deserves repeating. It's easy to be cynical and not recognise the possibilities that are presented every day. As a Slytherin, you know this. Maybe I need to be a little more Slytherin. I'm proud of what I achieved as a teenager, but I have more to give. I'm not going to live in a rut. I'm not going to be Mrs Anyone. I am my own person.

4) And my intentions towards you. I suppose that's what you really wanted. I'm not going to waste parchment saying I find you sexy - that much is self evident. I will say I find you interesting. You aren't what I expected. And I think ... I really think that contrary to what anybody looking at us externally might think, we have a very similar way of looking at things.

So my intentions. I'd like to spend more time with you. That simple. I'd like to see if you can get me topless again - and be warned, I'll be on my guard next time. And I'd like to offer my honesty, in return for yours. Truth is a rare commodity.

So, what do you say? Do you agree to my terms?"

Snape smirked. "Terms agreed," he murmured under his breath. Then he frowned as the words shuffled on the page once again, creating an additional final line.

"Delighted to hear it. We both have a free period Thursday morning. Wednesday night, my rooms? You obviously know where they are. BYO tobacco unless you want my chemically enhanced filth."

He stood and considered his face in the mirror over the fireplace. Two bright cuts stood out: one on his temple, the other on his cheek. They would be easily healed. He was otherwise an ugly man. There was no getting around that. He thought or Cissy, pissed at Christmas and looking up at him from beneath magically enhanced eyelashes. "You can be sexy without being good looking, you know," she had murmured in a husky voice. She was a tease and he never got much out of her but longing looks and a snog or two when Lucius was in Azkaban, but there must have been something in that.

Sexy without being good looking. Apparently so.


	3. Waves of Uncertainty

It was a minor inconvenience but he had chosen to walk to her rooms. Fire whiskey didn't tend to Floo well and he had high hopes for the evening. Kicking it off with second degree burns would not be the way to start.

He stood casually before the mirror entrance and discretely asked that she be informed he was there. Snape stood with his back to the mirror. He did not need to check his appearance. He looked like an enormous vampire bat, as usual. Confirming this would be counterproductive. Granger knew what he looked like and had invited him anyway.

A soft click behind him. He turned and saw the mirror had swung outwards. Hermione stood in the doorway. He pulled back one side of his teaching robes, revealing the secreted bottle of Old Ogden's. "I hope you're thirsty because I'm not touching that stuff!" She said as she stood aside to let him enter.

Snape had brought a small quantity of hash for her and a couple of pre-rolled cigarettes for himself.

During the day he had been worried they would be stiff and formal with one another. Or rather, that he would fall into his prickly default setting and ruin everything. He was quick to pour himself a glass of fire whiskey, gulping the fiery lubricant and feeling himself relax just marginally.

"Easy tiger," she murmured, smirking as he shot her a withering look. She wasn't looking at him and so the effects were lost. She was focused on rolling her first joint. Even from the other wide of the room he could smell the chemicals on the commercial tobacco. Hermione rolled and licked along the paper, smoothing it into place, then twisted the roach. She grinned up at him and went to the window, pushing it wide open.

Her apartments were small. Cozy, he suspected was the word Minerva had used to sell it. Warmly furnished and decorated, with one curved wall echoing the curved exterior of the tower. The window was small with a deep sill, just big enough for two to sit on. She perched on the sill and took an ugly plastic lighter from the book shelf to spark up, then offered it to him.

"Lucius Malfoy once told me that everyone in the room knew I had Muggle blood the moment I sparked up because I used a lighter instead of a wand." He took out a rollie and bent his head to meet her offered flame, watching the tip and puffing.

When he looked up she was watching him curiously. "Does it matter?"

He took out the cigarette and joined her at the window, not sitting - he wasn't yet ready for that closeness - but leaning out to blow the smoke into the cold night air. "It mattered then."

"You still use a lighter," she said.

Snape inclined his head. "I was never allowed to forget I had Muggle blood anyway. And the lighter was my Father's. I hexed him to do it the moment I came of age. It was a good story to bandy about the common room."

"Was it just a story?" She asked.

He stared out at the shadowed Hogwarts grounds. In his mind he saw the old man, furious from being antagonised. Snape watched the clock on the wall, waited for midnight, drew out his ire as long as he could before a fist would fly. He might still be scrawny, but dear Daddy had no way of knowing how powerful his son could be. The first clout landed on Severus' ear, stunning him. Midnight struck. Severus stunned his father in return, again and again until he was cringing on the floor. He took the lighter from the old man's hand, just because that's what he happened to be holding, and Severus found he wanted to take whatever he could lay his hands on before Tobias found a way to get around the magic and put him back under the thumb.

"Not one I tell any more." He narrowed his eyes at Hermione. "Is it true you charmed your parents to forget about you?"

She held her breath and wouldn't meet his eye, then blew smoke from the corner of her mouth so it spouted out of the window. She nodded. "I thought about trying to find them but ... I don't know how I would explain. At least I kept them safe."

Snape sent up thanks that he was alone. Voldemort killed the only person he really cared about and he had been careful not to form attachments ever since.

"Tell me about the legilimency," she said. It was an obvious change of subject but at least she was smiling - though it was in the hazy, lop-sided way that suggested the pot was already helping to mellow her out. It wasn't that Snape objected to Granger's need for chemical anaesthesia; he was in no position to judge. He just felt curious as to how she would behave around him sober.

Snape conjured a tumbler and poured a generous measure of fire whiskey, cigarette hanging from his mouth. He took it out to drink, flicking ash out of the window. "I'm surprised you didn't research the topic to death in you fifth year."

She grinned at him, stubbing out her cigarette and crossing her arms. She was cold but didn't move away from the window. If Snape didn't know any better, he'd think she enjoyed being somewhere where he had to get close in order to smoke out of the window. "I did, as much as I could get from the school library without a pass to the restricted section. But the methods of application apparently lacked imagination."

He snorted at her repeat of his taunt to the Gryffindor fourth year in the library. Snape lifted the tumbler to his lips and enjoyed the scorch of the fire before drinking it down. "You'd be surprised how much of magic has a sexual application, if you're adventurous enough to try it."

"So tell me, Severus Snape. How do you make a woman come without touching her?"

He smirked. "Are you asking me to tell of show you?" She spread her hands in response, a means of saying 'game for anything' without actually speaking the words. Uptight Hermione was still present, which somehow made it all the more exciting. He ploughed on without waiting for her response, "Showing you wouldn't be easy, not to the full extent of causing an orgasm. Not impossible, but it would take a lot of time and rooting around in your head. Which I don't suspect you'd want. You need to know your partner, know what's turns them on, know which feelings to manipulate. Much like causing a physical orgasm, I suppose. But with a bit more skill."

Hermione lifted her feet up onto the window sill, creating a more physical barrier. Snape followed her cue and shifted slightly away, leaning back against the window frame and watching her carefully. It was irksome, he knew, to think about someone digging around in your mind, through your memories. That was precisely what had led him to learn Occlumency. But the study of one tended to lead to the study of the other, and some people had fascinating minds.

"Show me?" She asked. "A little bit?"

A little bit. He smirked. "Try to keep yourself open to me. It's natural to fight, and some people are better at that than others. Potter was terrible at it, but you never know. Try to relax."

He watched her take a deep breath and waited for her to open his eyes and look at him, a sign she was ready. He took his wand from his sleeve and focused his mental energy on her. "Legilimens!"

Snape acclimatised to the shape and methods of Hermione's mind as quickly as he could. Orderly and surprisingly accessible - though he noted there were some dark recesses hidden behind sturdy walls. Finding the memory he wanted to draw out, for his own enjoyment as much as hers, was easy.

He saw himself through her eyes, experienced him as she had. The smell of smoke and herbs, potions smells. All dark hair and angles and sallow skin, but she didn't seem to mind. She was close to him. She could feel the heat of his body, and was surprised at it, as though she had expected him to be cold. She liked his eyes. She liked watching his eyes. And more than this, she liked how close he was allowing her to get, not just physically but mentally. She liked that he was letting her in, letting his guard down. That was what turned her on, besides the weed and the subject matter and the idea of how raw and wrong fucking him might be.

His hand against her skin felt good. His fingers were sliding closer to the wetness she knew was there, had felt pooling between her legs for the last hour. Standing on the Astronomy tower watching him smoke, seeing the way he was when he thought no one was watching. Snape pushed that memory away. He focused on touching her.

"There," she whispered.

His touch was so light, too light. She wanted friction. She wanted to fuck. In the memory her attention dropped to the hardness she could see in his trousers. He felt her curiosity. Snape pushed his own feelings towards her, offering them like a gift. He offered the heat and coiled tightness, the uncomfortable feeling of confinement. He felt her curiosity, the first delicate exploration of this feeling he put to her.

She wanted to give him everything he desired, wanted to give the the warmth and pressure and sensation that would get him off. Hermione didn't have the skill or the shared experience. She didn't know how to sieve through his memories to find something she could manipulate, as he could if he had the time or patience.

He calmed her, refocused her attention. He was slipping his finger inside of her. And here she teetered on the knife edge between lust and shame. All of her arguments against everything she was doing washed over him: this was a teacher, a colleague, he hated her, he would have expectations she couldn't meet, would never meet. This was wrong, but she wanted it so much. The only answer was to leave.

Snape worked the memory backwards, not letting her leave, not letting her feel that final dismissal - though he was curious how she had filled her evening after leaving him. She was aroused, she must have got herself off. There was a flash of feeling, lying in the dark rubbing her clit, a desperate heat that wasn't quite good enough but got the job done in the end. Snape smirked and drew the memory back to the delicious moment of penetration, her cunt lips parting for him, the promise of more. He focused on her need and want and desire, mingled the fear in amongst only as a means to heighten the sensation.

Hermione's mind was trying to communicate with him, though she didn't yet have the focus required. He got a sense of what she was saying. She echoed the feelings he wa pushing on her, intensifying them, showed a dual desire to reciprocate and to enjoy more. More. That was the overwhelming impression.

Reflexively Snape out out his hand to steady himself as he withdrew from Hermione's mind. He braced at the knee, as though he had fallen from a great height and somehow managed to land on his feet. He opened his eyes and focused on a point straight ahead until the world was done tilting. He breathed.

Hermione wasn't used to the sensation. Automatically Severus' free hand shot out to steady her on the window sill as she flailed for purchase, threatening to topple onto the floor. She was breathing heavily. Panting. They both were.

She moved first, taking his arm roughly at the elbow and pulling him in towards her. Snape had made a promise to himself that he would not be the one to make a move. His pride demanded she initiate whatever was going to happen. He didn't want her running off again - and now his wish had been granted.

His taste buds were dulled by the cigarettes. Hermione didn't taste of anything to him. But her mouth was warm and soft and willing. He loomed above her, leaning his forearm against the window frame to lean closer to her, pressing her back against the wall. Hermione didn't hold back. Her tongue was quick to press against his lips, and he eagerly opened his mouth to her. Snape's other hand slid along her thigh. Nylon again. He smiled, safe in the knowledge that she would not see. Fingers slid up until the shiny fabric until they brushed against skin. Hermione pulled back just a fraction. Her eyes were dark, pupils dilated by lust and pot. "I thought you'd like that."

Snape attacked her mind again, ignoring the added arousal he felt at her desire to please him, the fact she had considered what he liked. His hand moved smoothly to the inside of her thigh. Hermione parted her legs for him without a murmur, one foot sliding down onto the floor. His fingertips pressed against her panties. "Already?" He murmured, teasing her folds through the sensible cotton. So wet already, and all for him.

"Bedroom," she said against his lips. Against his nature and better judgement, Snape grinned. He nipped at her lower lip and moved back to give her space to stand.

Hermione breezed past him towards the only door in the room. She glanced over her shoulder at him, chestnut curls flicking out and then framing her face. Her hands were at the front of her blouse, working down the buttons as she crossed the room. Snape followed her eagerly, shedding his own clothes. Slytherin, dungeon dwelling lawyers dropped to the floor with each step: teaching robes, coat, waistcoat. By the time he entered her bedroom he was removing cuff links and slipping them into his trouser pocket, tugging at the knot of his cravat.

A glance around Hermione's bedroom was an interesting experience. He wondered if this was the first room she had been allowed to decorate herself - childhood in a shared dormitory, a few years spent sharing houses, flats, renting soulless shells.

The room was hippyish, he supposed. She was born to the wrong generation. A lava lamp, a desk lamp and an overhead light with a shade of rich autumn colours provided the only light in the room. Book cases, two walls' worth, showed how Ms Granger liked to spend her book royalties and Ministerial compensation. Along with the books were eastern figures, a small shrine made up to the Muggle elephant headed god decorated with magical moving photographs of her friend and still ones of her parents. He had expected a tidy freak, and the bed was made, the floor clear - but clothes spilled from open drawers, adorned the desk chair, and her desk was littered with books and quills.

Hermione cleared her throat. As he drew his attention back to her, she let her skirt fall to the ground.

In an instant, Snape was on her again, one hand roughly grabbing the nape of her neck, the other sliding underneath her buttock, lifting her close and tight against him as he kissed her again. He rocked his hips against hers, grinding his hard cock against her body. Hermione's hands were working on his shirt and Snape slid his hand down from her neck to her bra, unsnapping it in a single clean move. She shrugged off the bra and drew his hand to her breast without breaking the kiss. Such heat, such softness. Snape pinched and rolled her nipple, earning a squeak against his lips that made his cock jump.

She pushed at his shoulders and Snape helped her to shrug his shirt off. He lifted her against him again. It wasn't like him to be desperate, fucking Lily as soon as was humanly possible aside. Severus prided himself on taking care of a woman's needs. With looks like his, he needed something to boost his chances.

As though reading his mind, Hermione pulled back just a little. "Fuck me," she growled. "Now."

Her hands were at his trousers then, working the fly. If he were a young man he would pick her up and fuck her against the book case, where the smiling waving picture of Saints Potter and Weasley could see. She was small but the last thing he wanted to do was risk fucking up his back when there was obviously so much still to come.

A hand wrapped around his cock and squeezed.

Snape melted into Hermione, pulling her close as she started pumping the length of his dick, growling against her neck as he kissed and bit and sucked on any skin he could reach. Distantly he registered she was backing him up, and when his calves nudged the bed he sat heavily. Hermione shimmied her knickers down her legs, kicking them off at the ankle. And then she was on him, straddling his lap, taking him in hand and working his cock against her snatch. He wanted to kiss her but she was watching him - and in her eyes he could see just how much she enjoyed watching him.

Hermione sank slowly onto his cock. He could feel her cunt opening for him, wet and willing and ready. So good. So fucking good.

She laughed, a single hoarse sound, and Snape realised he had been speaking aloud. He glared at her to save face, but her cunny muscles squeezed around him and his face collapsed into a frown of concentrated pleasure.

Slowly she worked her hips, up and down, back and fore. His long fingers dug into her arse. He let her set the pace but was desperate to hold her, feel her, cling on to every inch of flesh he could reach. He opened his eyes and looked up at her as she swayed and rocked in the dim warm light. He leaned back against the bed. Hermione scratched blunt nails down his chest in a way that made him grunt and push up into her.

"Touch me," she breathed, her voice high and hoarse.

Severus slid his hand between their bodies. Swollen, sticky cunt lips. Then calloused fingers found the hard little nub of her clit. Her muscles clenched around him, squeezing steadily tighter and tighter. He flicked her sensitised flesh without mercy, for that moment wanting nothing so much as to watch her spill over into orgasm.

She leaned forwards on him, hands braced on his chest as she ground against his hand. As she got closer she worked just the top couple of inches in and out of her cunt, rocking rather than fucking in a way that was maddening. White hot, intense pleasure, nearly more than he could bare, and all he could do was hold on and refuse to come. He pressed his fingers flush to her cunt, giving her all the pressure and friction she needed. Then she watched her eyes squeeze tight shut, her body go rigid and her cunny start to spasm around him.

Snape left her no time to recover. He flipped her over and started fucking her just the way he wanted: deep and hard and rough. He pounded her until their hips slapped together, pushing her up the bed with every thrust. Her cries here muffled against his collarbone, but he could feel how wet she was.

Only a few minutes, that's all it took. Then he buried himself inside of her, as deep as he could. Hips still working, he collapsed on top of her for just a moment, then shifted to the side. Reflexively he drew her to him, arm wrapped around her shoulders, her head sliding comfortably onto his chest.

"I thought you had a small cock?"

Snape clenched his jaw, halfway between laughter and anger. After glow was never a settling experience for him. Neuroses set in too quickly. Other people had endorphins, he had fear and self loathing. "Not large isn't synonymous with small. I believe I'm average."

"Nothing average about you." She kissed his chest. The eyes that looked up at him were black. Would she have fucked him if she wasn't stoned?

"Hey," she said softly. Her hand was on his cheek, guiding his gaze down to her. She was focused and frowning. Here it came. Snape girded himself for the ceremonial throwing out of her apartments, hoping he would have a chance to grab the fire whiskey before being hexed into the hall ways. "Stop thinking," she said softly.

"Easier for some than others," he replied.

She scrutinised him. "You're worried I'm going to chuck you out."

He raised an eyebrow. "I thought you didn't practice legilimency."

Hermione snorted and rolled away from him, reaching for a packet of Muggle cigarettes on the bedside table. "You're not nearly as subtle as you think." She crossed to the only wall that had no bookshelf and pulled back a wall hanging. Another window, the mirror of the one in the living room, lay behind. She opened it and lit her cigarette, perching on the window sill as she had before. Naked but for the stockings and suspenders, her nipples hardened from the cold air. She leaned back her head and exhaled the smoke. The winter night blew the smoke back into the room so it swirled around her, then drew it out again. The moon was full and painted her body an eerie, watery shade of white. Her eyes her dark, face shadowed by the thick curtain of her hair, which hung nearly to her elbows. Snape propped himself up on one elbow, trying to decide if she was the most beautiful woman who had ever permitted him to fuck her.

She turned her head to him and smiled lazily - he saw the pale shine of her teeth. She held out the cigarette to him.

Snape wasn't quite as comfortable with the idea of standing partially naked in the window. Below them he could see the light of Hagrid's hut. But he took the cigarette from her and breathed a drag, leaning over her to blow the smoke out the window. She reached back to him, not pulling him closer or stroking or nuzzling. Just touching him. Her fingers were warm. Their tips brushed along his ribs. It tickled but he fought the urge to shy away.

Hermione looked up at him and leaned her head against his chest. "Did you enjoy that?"

The taste of commercial tobacco made his nose wrinkle and he passed the perfectly machine formed cigarette back to her. "Obviously."

"You say that, but you look like you just had to sit through an audience with Gilderoy Lockhart."

He frowned through the temptation to smile. "I'm not good at this part."

"You mean you're not usually present for this part." The cigarette was done already. She stubbed it out and let the butt rest on the window sill. He smirked. She wouldn't just flick it out. God forbid anyone find cigarette stubs, floors and floors beneath her window. He had no doubt she would incinerate it later. "If you're uncomfortable you can go. It's up to you. But I'm not throwing you out." She kissed his chest, a gesture of affection that made him uncomfortable, his chest tight. "I enjoyed that. I want to do it again."

He looked at her for a long time, watching for signs that she was laughing at him. He thought of Lily, who fucked him in a fit of anger against her husband. She should have been angry at him. Instead she made him tea. He had fucked Hermione for no reason whatsoever - just because he wanted to. She should be throwing him out, but she offered him a cigarette. A hideous, poisonous cigarette, but the gesture was well meant.

Slowly Snape pressed a kiss to Hermione's damp forehead. "I need to go," he said softly. He didn't want to make her angry or upset. She smiled, but he wasn't sure if she meant it. "Good night, Hermione."


	4. Slice of Life

Stretching in the warm nest of her bed then curling back up into a snug ball, Hermione was always grateful for a lie in. Her schedule was good enough to provide her a midweek extra on top of the weekend, and she distinctly remembered sending up silent thanks to the deputy head when she saw her timetable. Hermione plumped her pillow and repositioned herself, checking her watch on the dressing table. She should get up and dressed and head down for a late breakfast.

The sight of the cold, crisp morning outside kept her horizontal. It looked like a good day to be under a blanket. There's work to be done, she told herself sternly. Children to teach, books to translate. You can't live your life from your bed.

There had been days - weeks even - where that had been a tempting prospect. She had never thought of herself as depressed, not after everything she had survived without seemingly batting an eyelid. It had been difficult to accept that the emotional repercussions might come afterwards; that while it was easy to be awake at a moment's notice when there were Death Eaters breathing down their necks, it was much harder when there was nothing to get up for. Not nothing, not precisely. But nothing that would lead to fatalities. No one would die if she didn't eat breakfast. In the months after she left Hogwarts to go out and find her place in the world, she had found it increasingly hard to know what to do, where to go, how she was supposed to act.

In many respects, writing had saved her. It offered her a project that she could think was important. As long as she was active and thinking, she was not remembering. This was the aim of the game.

So one book was published, and Hermione got stuck again. She decided on a new book, but even that didn't seem to give her the right drive to get up and live. Returning to Hogwarts had been Harry's idea. Instill a routine. Be around people. Eat proper meals. It made her cringe internally that he had pushed her so hard to make these positive steps, when he had been through so much more and seemed fine.

At least she didn't have Ron nagging her any more. Their brief spark of a relationship had been blessedly short lived. There were some things that were so much better in the imagination, and being the full time girlfriend of Ronald Weasley had been one of them. She remembered once telling him he had the emotional range of a teaspoon. It turned out that statement had been generous.

"Hermione Granger," she said aloud to the room, trying to sound like her mother, "You have to the count of three to get out of bed!"

Hermione didn't count. She sighed and got up instead. There were levels of indignity she couldn't stoop to, even on her own in her own bedroom. As she eased up she felt a warm, pleasant ache between her legs and grinned. She reached for her cigarettes and lighter and sparked up, standing and opening the window. Cigarette hanging from her mouth, she pulled on her dressing gown quickly, huddling down into it and squinting out at the bright day.

"I fucked Professor Snape," she said as she extracted the cigarette from her mouth and blew the smoke out the window. The words made her smile. She wasn't one to rebel, but having sex with someone almost everybody she knew and loved despised was quite a coup. Not that that was why she had done it. She did it for the same reason she did everything: because she wanted to. No one could argue with that. And if one thing was certain it was that she wanted to do it again.

Hermione closed her eyes and recalled his face when he flipped her over and started really pounding into her. She remembered the sound of his breath, his voice when he spoke to her. Her body responded to the memories, warmth settling and thrumming between her legs. She could only hope he thought so warmly about her that morning.

His post-coital bolt wasn't really surprising, she supposed. Not that she knew a great deal about his romantic past, but he wasn't close to anyone. The only woman he had ever loved had died. Even when she was a teenager he struck her as a very lonely man - and deservedly so, she had thought at the time. Whatever made someone a good fuck, though, he had that in spades. Maybe not experience, but intensity, passion, attention to detail. All the things that made him a great wizard also made him a great lover. And he seemed to share her views about keeping things casual, which could only be good.

Hermione stubbed out her cigarette and went to get dressed. She picked out a pair of stockings and, with a mischievous smile, wondered if she could think up a way to let Snape know she was wearing them.

By the time she had dressed, tamed her hair, donned her teaching robes and made her way down to the Great Hall, most of the students and staff were filtering out to go about their day. There would be time to grab some toast and marmalade, and probably peace and quiet to read a book while she ate.

As she entered the hall, she nearly walked straight in to the man who had made her ache so pleasantly. She smiled, taking a step back. Snape did not smile. Nor did he scowl, which was tantamount to a warm greeting, based on the way he would normally behave towards people first thing in the morning. "Granger," he said by way of greeting.

"Good morning, Professor Snape," Hermione said, not immediately meeting his eye. She was looking at the students nearby, suddenly paranoid. When she did look up at him he was frowning and tight lipped.

She saw his wand slip out from his sleeve and he mumbled a Muffliato at the nearby gaggle of sixth years. Tilting her head to one side, Hermione wondered if she was about to witness Severus Snape apologising. She couldn't remember ever having witnessed such a thing before.

"I assume I'm welcome to your apartments on Friday nights as well, as early mornings aren't an issue. Correct?"

Hermione felt a smile at his pure gumption twitching the corners of her mouth. Being outraged would be too easy, and probably what he half wanted. "You're welcome to my rooms any evening. I simply reserve the right to kick you out when I've had enough."

He sniffed. "That's your prerogative."

They stood for a moment looking at each other. Neither willing to admit they wanted a repeat of the night before, yet both silently understanding that this was the case. If Hermione had been a romantic woman she would have wished they could kiss. As it was, she was content with the slow flick of his eyes down her body. She saw his attention pause at her legs. Then he looked back up to meet her eyes and raised a questioning eyebrow. The low heat that she was beginning to associate closely with Severus Snape thrummed between her legs and, smirking, she nodded once. Yes, she had worn stockings. Yes, to a certain extent, she had worn them for him. He looked penetratingly into her eyes and, for a moment, she wondered if he was poking around her mind without permission. The smallest of smiles curled his lips as he appraised her once more before swishing away, his black robes billowing behind him.

Snape did come to her rooms on Friday night, accepting the glass of red wine she offered instead of bringing his own bottle of spirits. She was pleased that the glass was only half drunk. Their preamble was less stalling, less nervous. Snape kissed her as she smoked. He lifted her skirt so he could appreciate her stockings. She flicked ash out of the window and watched him through hooded eyes as he parted her legs and knelt between them, showing just how much he appreciated her choice of attire. He made her come with his mouth, and she was disappointed not to save her orgasm for when they had sex - but it didn't matter. She would still enjoy. Climax wasn't everything.

He fucked her slowly, almost tenderly, as though determined himself to make it last as long as possible. She suspected he was trying to make her come again, and wondered if he was frustrated when it didn't happen. After he came, she licked him clean again as a consolation prize. Within moments his cock started to show interest again. She grinned, looking up at him as she sucked his prick between her lips. Disheveled was a look that suited him: lips parted, teeth bared, a pink flush high on his cheek bones and his hair in a lank disarray. He combed long fingers through her hair and urged her on until she swallowed his spunk. Severus growled and grunted when he came, like receiving so much pleasure caused him physical pain.

They had managed to actually get naked this time. Severus had even permitted her, eventually, to remove her stockings. Smoking by the window afterwards, she looked over his body. He was completely unabashed about his nakedness, now it was out there. His body was slim and wiry, chorded muscles standing out against the skin with little flesh in between. Against his pale skin the patches and trails of dark hair stood out like India ink on parchment. He lay with I his hands behind his head, eyes closed, frowning even when he was at peace.

He dressed without being prompted, but without leaving the impression that he had bolted. Hermione kissed him goodbye in her dressing gown. Perhaps that was sentimental, but she wasn't entirely without feeling.

Snape surprised her by appearing outside her mirror door the next night as well. He offered no explanation but kissed her, plucking at her clothes. Hermione wasn't about to complain - though he tasted strongly of fire whiskey. It didn't seem to harm his capabilities.

Thereafter, having discovered she was true to her word and he was welcome, Snape floo'ed or knocked on her mirror every couple of days. On a school night he would not stay long, sometimes only dropping in for a drink and a smoke on the way back to the dungeons after his nightly patrol. Other times they would kiss, grope. But she noted nudity only happened when they had the luxury of taking their time, and for this she was grateful. He was good enough to respect her boundaries and Hermione had no doubt that, if she was not in the mood for company, he would excuse himself without needing to be asked. In many ways, he was quite intuitive.

Outside of Hermione's apartments, they carried on very much as they always had. Which is to say, they ignored each other almost entirely. They might nod to each other at breakfast or exchange a greeting in the library. But he showed no interest in her research, and she made no effort to get closer to him.

Though there was one occasion, at the weekly staff meeting, where Minerva raised the need to start supervised revision sessions in the run up to the December exams. She went through the list of compulsory subjects and waited for a teacher to volunteer to supervise, along with the subject head. When 'Potions' was read, she was left looking expectantly at the small gaggle of teachers for some time. Hermione glanced at Snape, who was studiously examining his hands. The fact his colleagues still seemed to have issues trusting him, still treated him as something of a pariah despite his rank as deputy head, didn't seem to bother him. Unless you happened to know how much fire whiskey he drank after patrol each night.

Hermione slowly, silently raised her hand. Minerva raised her eyebrows, but carried on the list without comment. When she looked at him, Snape was still studying his hands, a small frown deepening the crease between his eyebrows.

"Not very good at subtlety, are you?" He hissed at her when he floo'ed to her rooms that evening.

Hermione raised an eyebrow, biting back her temper. "Don't take it personally. No one else was going to volunteer and I'm a peace maker. I would have done the same for anyone."

Snape smirked, as though that was precisely what he had expected all along. Then he pushed her against the wall, none too gently, his bony hand biting into her shoulder and hip as he kissed her hard enough to bruise. They fucked there, her knickers torn away, gripping onto his robes for purchase.

When he came, Snape rested his head against the wall above her shoulder breathing hard. She had not come. She had not particularly enjoyed it - and he knew it. He breathed and slowly relaxed. Twice he drew a breath as though about to say something, and then let it go. Instead he dropped to his knees and licked her clean in penance, holding her hips again as she bucked and writhed against his mouth.

In the morning Hermione had rich purple bruises on her hip. She sighed and healed them before going to breakfast. Severus asked if she was well, a muscle in his cheek jumping and his eyes boring into her. "Of course," she replied breezily. But as soon as she met his eyes she could feel him flicking through her mind, sifting out the memory of just a few moments past, of the purple-black finger marks on her skin.

Again he looked ready to apologise, but didn't.

He came to her that night. It was only when he was stone cold sober that she noticed how much he must really drink. He tasted of cigarettes and breath mints, with no sour bite of whiskey. His eyes were sharp and he missed nothing - not that she suspected he missed much anyway, but his focus was intense. Snape lay her on the bed and spent hours kissing and stroking and touching her body, watching her face for every small reaction.

Hermione came hard after an hour of teasing, her arousal staying high for once, to the point where she wondered if she would come again. The very act of wondering seemed to scupper that idea, and though she enjoyed Severus' attentions she longed for him to just fuck her.

As he finally stripped his trousers, he pulled her on top of him and purposely smoothed his hands over her thighs. He pushed up inside of her, straining as he got close and Hermione kept on teasing and grinding, rolling her hips and tightening her cunt muscles around him. He came with his hands fisted in the sheets, his knuckles turned white.

Hermione lay on top of him for a long time. He didn't seem to mind.

"I'm not made of China, you know," she whispered against his ear. "I heal. It's fine."

One hand rose up from the sheets and settled on the small of her back, thumb rubbing back and fore. "It's not fine," he said.

She pulled his other hand up to wrap his arms around her, collapsing against his chest and enjoying the warmth of his body. "You can make it up to me with a hug. And when your dignity has taken a suitable quantity of battering, it will be fine. You don't have to think about it."

His arms tightened fractionally around her. "I didn't think this sort of thing would be welcome."

"I'm not vain enough to think that you can't hug me without falling madly in love with me. Sometimes we all need some physical comfort."

"I thought that's what we had anyway." She could hear the smirk in his voice.

"Well," she said, lifting from him and immediately missing the heat from his body. "There's more than one way to skin a skrewt."

It was the first week of December when Severus offered to admit Hermione to his rooms in the dungeon. The invitation came quite out of the blue and, when made, Hermione accepted immediately before he could change his mind. She would follow his normal routine, making a nine o'clock sweep for students out after curfew, finishing in the dungeons.

The responsibility was supposed to be performed on a rota basis, two staff walking the corridors per night. But everyone knew that Severus suffered with insomnia and would walk the hallways and would be stalking the hallways anyway. Minerva said she had caught him often as a sixth or seven year just walking through the castle and sent him back to bed with a flea in his ear, only to catch him again a couple of weeks later. It had become an informal arrangement that the teachers only really needed one patrol rota, unless Snape specifically said otherwise for some reason.

Hermione walked as quietly as she could through the dark halls, her wand lit and held before her. It still felt wrong to disturb the sleeping castle. She still felt like a student out of bed. Even the portraits were snoring softly as she passed them, some grumbling quietly in their sleep about the light. If the ghosts were wandering, she didn't see them. If students were canoodling in dark corners, they did so very quietly.

Hermione had covered the Astronomy Tower - killing two birds with one stone by checking the lovers lane of Hogwarts and stopping for a very quick smoke - then toured the floors of the three above-ground common rooms. At last she headed down towards the dungeons. Perhaps it was a trick of the mind, but it seemed darker below ground level. The walls seemed to radiate cold. She pulled her teaching robes tighter around her and picked up her pace, wishing she had thought to wear a jumper under her robes. Snape wouldn't mind, her clothes seldom lasted long anyway.

Down the stairs and along narrow passages, past the statue of Stellan the Sly and on to the Potions classroom. From there it would only be a masked left turn and the tapestry concealing the door to Snape's rooms should be obvious.

Hermione paused just past the classroom. She stood very still, trying to breathe quietly. A muffled noise, close by. She turned back to the classroom and noticed that the door was ajar.

Years after the war, after living on the run for a year, after fearing for what might lie around every corner she still feared what might hide behind a classroom door. She chided herself mentally. If she wasn't careful she was going to turn into Mad Eye. All his paranoia didn't save him in the end. She felt a pang of loss and of disappointment at herself for such a harsh thought.

Even at Hogwarts, the world could still seem frightening in the dark.

In a burst of courage and with a curse ready in her mind, she opened the door wide.

The room looked empty. Yet she could still hear a muffled sound. It sounded like someone crying.

Walking between the empty desks, the abandoned pots of ink and scratchy, broken quills, and stacked empty cauldrons, Hermione cast her light about the room. In a corner at the back there was a huddled shape. Squinting past the brightly lit wand tip and the encroaching shadows, Hermione could make out a hunched figure. He was definitely weeping, black clothed shoulders shaking.

"Excuse me?" Hermione said, feeling guilty for intruding until she remembered that she was a teacher, not a student; that she was there to send students back to bed. "You're out after curfew."

The boy turned and narrowed dark little eyes at her. Inky hair hung to his jaw. It needed a wash. She stepped closer and he hastily scrubbed his sleeve over his eyes, though she could see even in the darkness that they were puffy from crying. His tie was green and silver, a Slytherin crest sewn to his black school robes. A second or third year, she would guess. He had that gangly look they got during the growth spurts, like his arms and legs were too long for the rest of his body. A prominent hooked nose distracted from the rest of his face, which Hermione reflected was unfortunate. She remembered how it felt, knowing her over bite was the first thing people noticed about her. Feeling ugly.

He rubbed under his nose and sniffed loudly. Hermione frowned. "What's wrong?" She asked.

"Nothing, I'm fine."

She would guess his voice had broken very recently. He didn't seem used to it yet.

As he wiped a bony, sallow hand over his face his sleeve listed. A large mottled bruise encircled his wrist, deep brown and ugly yellow.

"What's that?" Hermione asked sharply.

"Nothing," the boy answered, his voice just as sharp, black eyes flashing as he yanked his sleeve back down again.

Hermione sighed. Bullying in school usually resulted in magical maladies that would naturally go to the infirmary because the children didn't yet know how to cover up that they'd been scrapping. Physical bruising was more concerning. Almost none of the children would fight with their fists, except sometimes the Muggle borns. She remembered her own single act of violence against Draco Malfoy in her third year, still with a small thrill of satisfaction. But that bruise was larger than a child's hand. Something was very wrong.

"I think we need to go and see your head of house," she said softly, holding out a hand to the boy that he looked very reluctant to go near.

Before she could insist, there was a crash and a whoop in the hallway outside. Hermione sighed, looking over her shoulder. Peeves had been suspiciously quiet the last week. Just her luck he'd raise his ugly head at such an inconvenient time. "Wait right here," she instructed the boy.

As quick as she could she left the classroom, closing the door behind her as though that would keep the boy in. He would stay, she was quite confident. She was a teacher and, even if he bolted, she knew which house he was in. He wouldn't be difficult to find.

The Peeves clamour turned out to be Mrs Norris trying to get into the flobberworms in the Potions store room, and knocking a large tin of powdered quartz onto something that had obviously been somewhat explosive! It was a mess and it was late, and Hermione knew that she was already tardy. She picked up Mrs Norris by the scruff and sent her on her way, then cast as many reparation spells as she could manage. The combustible, whatever it was, would be beyond repair. That would be a sour beginning to her evening with Snape. She hoped he would not insist on going and inspecting the scene of the crime himself, hunting for a way to apportion blame to someone he could actually punish.

Hermione closed the door firmly, locking and warding it. How Mrs Norris had got in there was a mystery, but she had always thought there was something fishy about that cat.

She walked briskly back to the Potions classroom, with a sinking, inevitable feeling. When she got there, the door was ajar once more and the boy had gone. Hermione sighed and closed the door, turning her feet in the direction of the apartments of Severus Snape.

He held the tapestry aside for her to enter, hand rolled cigarette held between his lips. He was dressed in shirt and black trousers, hair damp and clean smelling. She noted also that he was freshly shaved and smiled a very small smile, hoping she wouldn't notice. It was nice he had made an effort for her, but she didn't want to make him defensive. It had already been a long night.

Snape warded the door and took the cigarette from his mouth, leaning in to kiss her, his hand sliding down the small of her back to cup her arse and pull her closer.

With regret, Hermione pulled away. "You're not going to like this," she said.

Snape sighed and handed her his cigarette. She spotted an ashtray on a pile of books - strangely, most of Snape's furniture seemed to be made from piles of books - and flicked away the excess ash. "Mrs Norris has destroyed something explosive in your store room. I cleaned up what I could, but I don't know what actually ignited. She's also eaten quite a few flobberworms."

"Wretched animal. I'll deal with it in the morning." He pulled her closer once again. His mouth was insistent and persuasive. It was tempting to melt into him, just enjoy the feel of his hardness pressing into her belly, the answering heat inside of her that responded so quickly to him. She enjoyed the firm stroke of his tongue and smooth of his hands a moment longer before pulling back for breath.

His eyes were so black. She kissed him once more. His fingers were plucking at her robes, her shirt.

"I need to ask you something," she said against his lips.

"Later," he muttered. Hermione smiled fondly. His hand was already snaking under her shirt, into her bra, lifting and squeezing the soft weight of her breast. She felt him roll his thumb over her nipple and shivered, tempted to follow his instruction.

"There was a boy crying in the Potions classroom," she said, kissing his forehead to soften her persistence. "A Slytherin boy. He had bruises all over his wrist, they looked too big to be from just scrapping."

Snape sighed. She felt the puff of his breath across her collarbone. He removed himself from her entirely and went instead to the liquor cabinet. Hermione frowned but adjusted her clothing. For a moment her attention was caught by the prominent bulge in his trousers and she felt a pang of mixed lust and regret. She hoped she was not putting him off entirely.

"He looked like a second or third year. Tall, gangly, shoulder length black hair and very dark eyes. He had..." She paused, watching Snape pour a large measure of whiskey and weighed her words carefully. "He had a very characterful nose." Snape snorted and she took that as a good sign, all things considered. "And a northern accent. He was crying, Severus, and those were just the bruises I saw. Do you know him?"

When he turned, Snape was scowling furiously. His eyes danced with fury instead of desire and he was gripping the whiskey bottle hard enough to turn his knuckles white. "What have you found out?"

Hermione blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Come on, you nosy little know it all. You obviously have something to get off your chest."

For a moment she could only stand with her mouth hung open, fear and anxiety, doubt and uncertainty twisting together in her belly as she tried desperately to think what she could have said to make him angry. "I don't know what you-"

"Don't take the piss," he spat. "I know only one lanky, oily haired, big nosed Slytherin. How many can you think of?"

She frowned, taking a tentative step towards him. "I'm just telling you what I saw. I thought you should know. You're the head of house."

He smiled unpleasantly, and emptied his glass in one go, quickly pouring another generous measure. "I see. And you saw this poor little boy bruised and crying. Better bring him to me, Granger."

"I ... When I went back after sorting out the potions store room ... I thought it was Peeves ... He'd gone."

"How convenient." Another measure disappeared down Snape's throat. Another was poured. Hermione suspected the motion of drinking was the only thing that kept him from hurling the bottle at her head. "There are no Slytherin boys matching that description. There are no students in the school at all of the description, to the best of my knowledge. And I write the timetables for the idle little shits, I know them all."

Hermione drew herself to her full height, though doubt had started to creep in long ago. "I know what I saw, Severus."

"Then you'd better go find your broken little boy so you can save him," he sneered. "Get out."

It was a wrench, but Hermione knew better than to try and reason with him when he had anger and alcohol on his side. She swallowed down her pride and turned back to the tapestry, ducking beneath it. Though muffled by the magic entrance and the thick stone walls, she paused outside his doorway and heard sounds of destruction inside. Hermione was a brave woman, but she sent up thanks to the tattered shreds of Snape's self control that he had not started throwing things in front of her. She would not have liked to try and restrain him.

"Better to let him rage it out," she told herself, ignoring her feelings of hurt and confusion.

She knew what she had seen. She had not imagined it. There was a boy who needed her help, and when she placed him in front of Snape she would see him bloody well apologise.


End file.
